


Keep Her From the Foggy Dew

by glinda4thegood



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Mythological Creature, Pooka - Freeform, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-21
Updated: 2011-03-21
Packaged: 2017-10-17 04:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Early character study of Dana Scully. PWP, story follows <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/160800/chapters/232153">The Luck of Frohike</a> Can be read as a standalone. Sex with a pooka.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Her From the Foggy Dew

Dana Scully stood at the top of the world, her cheeks burning as wild air lashed hair against her face. Arms extended she balanced, braced backward by pressure in the center of her chest.

Was this how an eagle felt, poised on precipice edge, about to hurl itself onto nature’s heavenly highway?

Ocean stretched far below like liquid, roiling silver spewing out from the black edge of eternity.

She raised her arms above her head and took a step toward the dark line where the earth fell away into airy void. Overhead the pockmarked gibbous moon seemed to be winking at her.

 _You’ve always been able to fly. Accept your power, take the step._

She leaned forward and the force of the wind was a physical presence, promising to hold her as securely as lake water holds a swimmer. Only one more step . . .

 

Scully woke with a shudder. She was panting and gripping the recliner’s arm with such force she'd torn a fingernail against the fabric.

“Just a dream.” She relaxed her fingers and kicked the recliner upright.

The window was cracked open. The temperature in the living room had dropped during her nap, the scent of rain filled the cooler air.

Scully threw her afghan off and went to shut the window. She stood for a moment, tracing a line on the damp glass, taking slow, deep breaths. It was a dreary afternoon, grey half-light misting over the spring greens and browns outside. Thoughts of a recent excursion to an area park in the dead of night surfaced, then were firmly pushed away.

The kitchen was warmer, and still smelled of cinnamon and blueberries from the muffins she’d baked for breakfast. Scully put her teakettle on the smaller, back burner and watched blue flame cradle the copper-colored metal.

When had Sunday afternoons alone become so -- lonely?

Scully wandered back into the living room and picked up the afghan, draping it over her shoulders. She stood and stared out the window, unseeing, as she waited for the water to boil.

Doing laundry, reading, cleaning the bathroom and kitchen, picking up a little more than the bare necessities at the grocery, maybe even shopping for a pair of new shoes or going to a matinee . . . at one time she had enjoyed the little private Sunday rituals. When, exactly, had she begun to feel dissatisfied? What Sunday morning had she first opened her eyes and sat up in bed with the sense she should be searching for something she’d lost the night before, the week before, the year before?

A whistling noise brought Scully back from her unintended self-exploration. She returned to the kitchen and found a cracked, discolored mug in the cupboard. She dropped a teaspoon full of sugar and a teabag into the mug, then added the boiling water.

She really liked the old mug. It was just the right shape and size, and fit her hand perfectly. But looking at the crack, Scully knew someday she would pour boiling water into it, hear a loud crack, then hot water would be everywhere.

She thought the same thing each time she made tea, Scully realized, anticipating the mug’s loss every time she used it.

Scully went back into the living room to stand by the window. The storm lurking around the edges of the day had finally decided to make an appearance. Rain hit against the glass with a hard, pellety sound. She cradled the mug against her face, remembering the way her cheeks had burned in her dream. She blew against the surface of the tea, and fingers of steam prickled the skin around her eyes. Curls of steam wafted away from her face and made foggy patterns on her window.

She was thinking of a ride in the fog when the doorbell rang.

 _Ridiculous. It can’t be him. Would a pooka bother ringing the doorbell?’_ Scully walked to the door, her sense of certainty growing as she touched the doorknob. She _had_ been thinking of him.

She opened the door.

“A fine afternoon to you, bright Dana.”

Tom stood grinning at her. His dark hair was wet, curling into ringlets against his cheeks and neck. His bare forearms were damp, and the white linen shirt he wore lay heavily against his chest.

Scully swallowed. A peculiar but pleasant sensation warmed her from toes to head. “Tom. I didn’t mean to --”

“Nonsense. You did.” Tom shoved his hands into the pockets of his dark, coarsely woven pants. A drop of water hovered on the end of his nose, dropped to the floor. “Ask me in. Offer me some tea.”

Scully backed up. “Come into the kitchen. You can drip on the floor there,” she said, trying to keep an answering grin from breaking out on her face.

She made the tea self-consciously, sat the cup on the kitchen table. “Sit . Have you been to see Frohike?” she asked, pushing the sugar bowl toward him.

Tom pulled out a chair, sat down, and began to spoon sugar into his tea. “No. ‘twas you who called me, girl dear.”

“Shit.” Scully watched the water drop in beads down to his chin. She grabbed a kitchen towel. “Use this. I admit I was thinking about you, and O’Hickey, and the boys,” she rushed on. “But I truly didn’t want you to show up here.”

“It know ‘tis bad manners to contradict a lady, but you did wish to see me,” Tom said mildly, holding the towel loosely between his fingers. “I heard it in your thought. I saw it in your eyes when you opened the door.”

“Men.” Scully grabbed the towel from him and blotted it against the side of his face. “Always so sure about what we’re thinking and feeling. Always so wrong.”

“When you say _we_ \-- I take it you don’t have a frog in your pocket?” Tom’s eyes laughed along with his mouth, red lights dancing in the coal-black irises. “You mean women in general?” His fingers touched hers as he pulled the towel away from her. “Well, since I’m not exactly a man, perhaps I’m not exactly wrong, either.”

“Okay,” Scully took a deep breath, and a step away from him. “I was feeling blue today. Introspective. A little lonely.”

“And really horny.” Tom stirred his tea and grinned.

“Dammit, Tom. That’s not somewhere you can intrude,” Scully snapped, defensive and embarrased by observation.

“Who better to judge the content and intent of a beautiful woman’s fantasy? You liked our ride together, bright Dana. Shall we go again?”

His voice was as seductive as his chest, Scully thought with resigned fascination. Sleepy, with the lilt of Irish brogue coloring his pronunciation and phrasing. He was dark, dangerous, different . . .

Scully told herself firmly that _different _didn't begin to adequately describe a supernatural creature who could assume the shape of a horse, a man, or who knew what else.__

“I’d eat a couple of muffins,” Tom said, “before we go.”

Scully scooped the covered plastic container off the counter. “There’s three left,” she said. “I was going to eat them for breakfast tomorrow.”

“You’ll only eat one,” Tom said practically, popping the cover from the container and helping himself to the muffins. “How is O’Hickey, and that nice Muldowney lad?”

“No one’s been kidnapped, shot, or exposed to exotic and alien viruses lately,” Scully said, watching the third muffin disappear after the first two. "And Mulder is as he always is."

Tom finished his tea then sat back, crossed his arms, and stared at her.

“What?” Scully felt the blood flood her cheeks. “I’m not going with you, Tom.”

“I think you are.” He pushed back from the table and extended his hand. “Just a short ride, lass. I’d like to show you my home.”

“I don’t have Mulder’s vast store of esoteric and useless knowledge, but isn’t that supposed to be dangerous for a mortal woman?” Scully stalled.

“Not for you, girl dear.”

Tom’s fingers closed over hers. He led her into the living room, then released her hand. Scully blinked as his manshape blurred and reformed. The pooka’s tail swished through the air, and Scully jumped nervously.

“Use the couch, climb up onto my back.” Tom watched her patiently as she slowly took the afghan from her shoulders, folded it into a neat square and patted it into place on the end of the couch. “Did you want to do the dishes first?” he inquired with deceptive meekness.

“Always so sure,” she muttered as she climbed onto the back of the couch. Scully slid her leg over the broad, black back, wound her fingers into Tom’s mane.

Tom stepped away from the couch. The familiar room faded around them. It was like the first time she’d ridden the pooka. Darkness stretched in every direction except for over their heads. The gibbous moon from her dream hung above them, dressed in gauzy clouds.

“Where is your home?” Scully bent forward, almost laying her torso along Tom’s neck. “Ireland?”

Tom whickered. “My home’s not on one of your maps,” he said. “But it takes its character from the island that exists in that spot on your world.”

The darkness thinned. They were walking along a forest trail on beaten earth, beneath giant trees. The air was full of soft, misty rain. Fat water drops drenched Scully's head and shoulders as the trees funneled moisture down their leaves toward the ground.

She shut her eyes, relaxed and took deep breaths. A heady mixture from humus-rich black dirt, wet vegetation and wet horsehide filled her lungs. Tom’s broad back was warm and solid under her legs. Scully fought the urge to lay full-length against his neck and bury her face in his wet mane. The gentle rhythm of his steady gait brought a pulse of heat and sensitivity to her inner thighs, and the spot between her legs that rocked against bone.

Scully pushed her hair away from her face and wiped the raindrops from her eyes with one hand. “I’m getting really wet,” she said. “What happened to the point A to point B method of travel?”

Tom rolled one red eye back at her. He snorted. “To tell the truth, I’m taking the long way home.” He tossed his head and his ears lay back for a moment. “It’s a beautiful evening in the forest and I love the rain. Also, ‘twas fully my intention to get you wet.”

“Oh.” Scully moved self-consciously, trying to minimize contact with her crotch against Tom’s back. “You’re an incorrigible flirt.”

“We’re nearly there.”

The sound of water rushing over a shallow, rocky bed came moments before Scully saw the log bridge across their path. Two long strides took them over the stream. Four long strides took them over a small knob of earth.

“Welcome to my home.” Tom stopped several yards from the cottage.

It looked as if it were growing from the forest floor, naturally camouflaged with the greens, browns and blacks of the trees around them. The cottage had been built with enormous logs. Shelf fungus, trailing ivy, and wildflowers grew in haphazard abandon on the dead wood. The roof was covered with emerald moss. Scully watched rain drop from the velvety surface like crystalline tears. She wondered what they would taste like, if she stood under the eaves and caught drops on her tongue as they fell.

“Slide down,” Tom said.

Her soaked sweatshirt rolled up as she slid to the ground, and Scully’s bare stomach came in brief contact with Tom’s hide. She pulled her shirt quickly back into place.

Tom’s horseshape shimmered, then changed into manshape.

In the unreal blur of transition of forms Scully felt her mind clear and focus. She examined Tom’s manshape with the same intense single-mindedness she usually saved for the bodies she autopsied.

“What do you see, lass?” Tom’s perpetual grin was absent. Instead his expression was thoughtful, almost sad.

“A very wet pooka,” Scully laughed, surprised by a buoyant giddiness that swept through her. “Your home is beautiful outside. What does it look like inside?”

Tom stepped to the door and lifted a metal latch. He pushed the door open, bowed slightly and gestured for her to enter ahead of him.

The simple, utilitarian beauty of the cottage’s interior made Scully smile with delight. The stone floor was covered with woven rag rugs in faded rainbow hues. A small table of golden oak, two chairs with caned seats, a glass-fronted library-style bookcase and a large bed with a blanket chest at its footboard were the only pieces of furniture in the single room.

Tom went to the fieldstone fireplace that took up most of the far wall. He stirred the bed of coals. They smoked and crackled as he piled several small logs onto the iron cradle.

“There are towels in the chest,” he said over his shoulder as he finished with the fire. “Grab me one?”

“I’m dripping on your rugs.” Scully pulled open the lid and let it rest against the foot of the bed. The scent of green hay and sun-dried laundry rose from the neat piles of blankets, towels and folded clothing inside the chest.

She wanted to roll on the smell, Scully thought as she selected two towels. It was a smell from long-ago summer evenings.

A bit of amber-capsulized memory rushed from a seldom explored place in her mind. She’d been folding laundry with Melissa, wrestling in the fresh sheets until their mother laughingly ordered them to stop. Scully remembered how she’d immediately obeyed, but Melissa had continued to whip a sheet around her shoulders into the air.

"Try it mom! It’s a royal cape, it’s butterfly wings! It’s the tail of a peacock. It’s a parachute, and I’m landing in the deepest, darkest part of the Amazon rain forest! Can’t you see the possibilities?"

Where had Melissa found that ability, to always look beyond the mundane to find the promise of other truths? It was something she and Mulder had in common.

The thought shocked Scully as she closed the lid of the chest. Mulder and Melissa were alike in so many ways, and she’d never thought about it before. What other self-evident truths had she missed and dismissed over the years?

She turned to offer the towel to Tom, and froze, arm half extended. He’d taken off his shirt and hung it on a wooden rack beside the fireplace. His boots were resting, upside down, on an old-fashioned boot tree.

“Thank you.” Tom took a step toward her and took one of the towels.

Scully unfroze. She rubbed the coarse towel over her face and neck rapidly. She blotted her hair, then tried to blot water from her shirt.

Tom grinned. “Your nipples are showing quite nicely. What are you thinking, bright Dana?”

“I’m thinking your nipples are showing quite nicely, too.” Scully said the words deliberately. “You have a beautiful chest. You have a beautiful body. Actually, bodies. Your personality could be considered odd, but engaging. You’ve been kind to my friends, and kind to me. I find everything about you attractive, and my nipples aren’t standing at attention just because of my cold, wet sweatshirt.”

Tom whistled softly. “By the dancers under the hill, lass, there’s hope for you!”

Scully pulled her sweatshirt over her head. She stepped past Tom and hung it next to his shirt on the drying rack. She could feel the new heat from the fire warming the air. Gooseflesh prickled along her arms, and she wiped her chest and arms with the towel.

“Why would you want to have sex with me?” Scully asked.

“Initially, because you’re a lovely woman, and you reminded me of Katherine.” Tom’s voice was slow, considering. “She’s the first mortal woman I ever saw in a relationship with one of our own. It was heartbreaking to see her age, to see her die. But the strength of her, the wisdom, laughter and charity of her . . .” he took a breath. “I was a bit in love with her myself. And I’ve no mate among my own. Our bodies are just as demanding for this fulfillment as are yours. The need for food, shelter and sexual expression drives us, mortal and fey.”

“You said, at first,” Scully prompted, stepping toward him.

“Ah. You’re such a woman,” Tom’s grin returned. “Contrary, cranky, defensive, aggressive, bullheaded and willfully blind. I like the fighting spirit of you.”

Scully dropped her towel. Her fingers brushed Tom’s chest, testing the springing strength of the dark, curling hair on his belly. “I’ve tried to ignore this part of my life,” she admitted.

“You’ve put fear behind you before.” Tom’s hands closed on her upper arms. He pulled her closer. “Let’s give the old bastard another mortal wound, shall we?”

Scully turned her face up to meet his kiss. She shut her eyes and relaxed against him. Tom’s lips and tongue moved against hers with a slow, gentle exploration.

“Oh.” The syllable escaped against his mouth as half word, half groan. “Tom.”

She’d never been kissed like this. It was as if she had become the center of someone’s universe, the sole reason for their existence. Her heart beat between her legs, and her nipples were so tight they ached.

Tom was teased her lower lip with his tongue, his fingers working to remove her bra.

"Let me." Scully pushed herself away from Tom’s chest and slid the bra straps off her arms.

“Hang it by the fire." Tom unbuttoned his pants and let them drop to the floor. “The rest of your things as well.”

“Oh.” Scully made a mental note to try and improve her vocabulary of exclamations, before the next time she got the chance to be intimate with someone. She draped her bra on the dryer and slipped off her wet sweats and panties. She turned to face Tom, damp, naked and completely self-conscious.

He was beautiful. Scully's momentary awkwardness dissolved in warm appreciation.

“You’re beautiful too.” Tom laughed at her. “What were you afraid of? That I’d be hung like a horse?”

“Oh.” Scully felt nervous giggles rising like champagne bubbles in her throat. “I did think about it,” she admitted. “But you’re perfect.”

“Come to bed, woman.” Tom scooped her into his arms, carried her to the bed. “One of the less discussed advantages of being a shapeshifter - -"

The bed smelled like the linens in the chest, and judging from the way she sank into the mattress, had to be stuffed with down. Tom curled beside her, holding her loosely against his body. His mouth moved across her shoulder cap, up her neck toward her ear. Scully shut her eyes, reveling in the comfort and electric promise of the contact.

“And I shall have some peace here.” Tom breathed against her earlobe.

Scully grinned and opened her eyes. “It’s a good thing I recognize that as a quote,” she said, pushing Tom away from her ear. She sat up and knelt beside him, smoothing the damp curls away from his temples. “Be still. I want to look at you.”

Tom’s fingers strayed across a nipple.

Scully shivered at the touch. She captured his hand and brought it to her mouth. “Not yet,” she whispered against his palm.

“Take your time, lass.” Tom shut his eyes as her fingers traced the outline of his eyelids.

She touched her tongue against his thick lashes, moved her lips over the pulse beating in his temple. She combed her fingers into the thick dark hair that lay against his neck, watching it form ringlets as she let it slide free.

His chest, arms, belly and legs were covered with fine, dark hair that grew into springing curls on his upper chest. The skin below the hair was milky pale, translucent where thick blue veins ran down the inside of his arms. Scully followed one of the veins with her tongue, pausing in the crook of his arm to press kisses against the sensitive flesh.

Tom shuddered as her damp hair brushed against his stomach. “I know I said take your time, but --”

“Shh.” Scully rubbed her face against his chest. The hair was so soft, and the odor of warm, male flesh was dizzying. She felt something hard push against her arm, and her eyes followed the line of twined hair that led downward from his navel. “Beautiful,” she murmured. His uncircumcised erection strained upward through a mass of dark curls.

Scully ran her hands over his thighs, feeling the muscles twitch. Deliberately she bypassed his groin and massaged her way to his toes, admiring the beautiful proportions of his lower legs and rock-hard calves.

“What lovely toes you have,” Scully stared at his feet and the clean, pink, perfect row of toenails. She blew against the sole of one foot.

“Jaysus, woman!” Tom’s entire body jerked in reaction. “You’ve another thirty seconds or so, and then . . .

Scully took one of his big toes into her mouth, wrapped her tongue around it and began to suck. Her fingers explored upward, finding the symmetry of his balls. Her efforts were rewarded with a noise from him that brought a surge of moisture down the inside of her thighs.

“And then -- what?” She moved her mouth to the other big toe, her fingers to his cock.

“Oh.” Tom sighed. “Never mind.”

She released his toe and swung her leg across his body, straddling him but not lowering her weight against him. He smiled up at her with a sleepy, unfocused expression of pleasure.

“Now?” he asked.

“Now.” Scully bent forward slightly and arched her head back as he cupped her breasts in his hands.

“My nipples. Suck them.” She felt his tongue and mouth respond, and the sensation was exquisite. “Don’t stop,” she whispered, “that’s wonderful.”

She held her weight on her knees, and her hands guided him between her legs. She was wet, so wet, and as they slid together her last rational thought was that he went into her with the ease of an old lover.

“Oh.” They said the word in unison.

Tom’s mouth left her breasts. Scully could see his eyes lose focus as she moved slowly against his body. His fingers stroked the curve of her hips, the slope of her cheeks.

She bent over, kissed his throat, then touched her tongue to the dark ridges of his nipples. Her pelvis moved without conscious guidance. Each thrust tightened a coil of pressure in her abdomen.

“Woman, dear,” Tom said with an outrush of breath. “I hope you’re as close to coming as I think you are.”

“So close,” Scully whispered. “I don’t want it to end, but I’m going to explode.”

Tom moved, rolling her underneath his body. He thrust into her with wild strength.

Scully moaned and pushed up to meet him, grudging every inch he withdrew, frantic to pull him as deep inside her as was humanly possible. Her orgasm hit with a force that locked her knees against his chest, and bowed her spine away from the down filled mattress. Coming down, Scully tasted the salty sting of sweat as it rolled off Tom's shoulder into her open mouth. She felt long shudders rack his body as he found his own pleasure.

“Wow.” Scully kissed his shoulder as he pulled out of her body.

“Wow?” Tom settled beside her. “Modern women are so articulate.”

Scully laughed. “What did you expect? Thank you, kind sir? You should be wowwing a little yourself.”

“Wow.” Tom kissed her cheek. “Move that lovely arse under the quilt.”

Scully let him pull the bed covers down, then settle against her side. She lay her head on his shoulder and stared at the rough-hewn boards on the cottage ceiling. “I haven’t been thinking clearly,” she said, “in such a long time.”

Tom began to laugh, a sound that turned into a full-throated belly roar.

“What?” Scully poked her finger into his chest. “What’s so funny?”

“You are,” Tom gasped. He managed to stop laughing, but a single tear trembled on this lashes. “I wish --"

There was silence between them.

“It’s only for tonight, isn’t it?” Scully said.

Tom sighed. “I wish I could say no to that question. It’s not only that we’re so different. To tell the truth, I’ve never met another mortal woman whose lifeline looked much like that tattoo on your lovely backside. The crux of the situation is your passionate love-hate affair with your work and your own mortal life. And there’s something else. Someone else.”

“Someone else?” Scully winced. “Tom.”

“There’s a mortal you could love, and a need inside you that cannot be disregarded any longer. It’s possible for you to be a whole woman. Loving isn’t a weakness or liability. It is as essential as water, air, food and shelter.”

“Take the step,” Scully said to herself. “Thank you, kind sir.”

“It’s not me.” Tom pulled her face around, his mouth moving against hers in a brief, hard kiss. “It’s you. All you.”

Scully stretched against his body. “It wasn’t all me.”

“Horny wench.” Tom was laughing again. “Turn about’s fair play. Let’s find out how ticklish you are.”

“Don’t even --"

The laughter faded from Tom’s face. “You’ll wake up, tomorrow morning, in your own bed. There will be a brief moment between waking and sleeping when you remember this night. You must decide, at that moment, whether you'll remember this as a dream, or accept the reality of our night together. The decision will affect how you live your life, how you give your love to that other.”

“Don’t you want me to remember?” she whispered. “Why must I choose?”

“Intimacy with the fey carries a price tag few are willing to dig deep and pay,” Tom said sadly. “What is important between us is that you make your own choices.”

His mouth came down before she could protest again. She shut her eyes, lay back and let him explore her body.

The light from the window was nearly gone, and the fire crackled cozily in its grate. Outside there was a gurgle of birdsong, then a rush of feathered wings. From somewhere near the hearthstone a cricket chirped.

“You’ll let me see what midnight looks like through your cottage window?” she asked as Tom tickled the bottom of her feet.

“If I can wake you up, I will,” Tom promised. “Do you mind turning over? I’d like a closer look at that lovely tattoo.”


End file.
